


Agent Lestrade's (E)Mission(s)

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Writing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Good Music, M/M, Really Sorry About The Title, Smut, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 22:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2325827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's secret mission is not what he thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agent Lestrade's (E)Mission(s)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Domino62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domino62/gifts), [distantstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/gifts), [MyFirstistheFourth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyFirstistheFourth/gifts).



> OMG SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST KIND OF BAD INFLUENCE ON ME

Mondays had a well-earned bad reputation. However for coppers, it was Fridays. Fridays began the weekend, which meant every single person who kept themselves carefully buttoned up during the week, let loose in an amateur version of how they thought the cool people partied, often getting themselves into more trouble than they bargained for. The London heatwave on top of the full moon really brought out the nocturnal crazies and DI Lestrade had had enough. 

 

 

 

And it was only three p.m.

 

After dealing with the consulting five year-old and his enabler for three days in a row on a case having to do with a serial killer that was sloppily imitating Jack The Ripper, all he wanted was one day, just a few hours in which to sit down, not shave, fart and scratch and watch the match(his eight year-old patiently taught him how to DVR it)whilst consuming copious amounts of alcohol. He would then think about his often away boyfriend during a good wank then go to bed and have morning lie in. But London had a separate plan for him, one that included being called in on one of his precious days off.

 

It was as if everything that happened was part of some personal vendetta, like he'd wronged the city in some major way and she was getting her revenge. Just as he'd finished some minor paperwork, he was called out again, vowing(again)to tell them all to kiss his arse after this last one. But he wasn't fooling anyone. Too dedicated to his work was Greg Lestrade, too focused on protecting the weak and helping those who couldn't help themselves. He always thought,  _What if it were my sister/parents/kids?_  and would plunge back into the fray.

 

But now he had to hear it from Donovan. Not about Sherlock, for once in her miserable life, but about unnecessarily shouting at someone on the scene, no matter how incompetent the prick was. She even agreed.

 

"Are you finished?" he snapped at her. She pursed her ample brown lips and glared out the windscreen as she pulled out of their parking spot, heading toward New Scotland Yard.

 

"Perhaps you just need a good shag," she suggested in her acidic way.

 

"Oh I damn sure need... My God, I'm not discussing this with you, Donovan." She shrugged with that little smirk that made him sometimes wish he could slap her. He wasn't ever proud of that thought but Sally needed to keep their mouth shut sometimes. He was reluctant to check his phone when a text alert sounded. His significant other insisted he switch it from the breathy moan of that Adler woman they'd all teased Sherlock by changing their text alerts to. He'd only gone along with it because it was John's idea so it was guaranteed not to be mean spirited. So now, whenever Rihanna droned out, "You can stand under my umbrella-ella-ella-eh-eh-eh," he knew it was his man getting in touch and couldn't help the spark of happy anticipation despite knowing he'd miss him worse after the brief interaction.

 

**_5 Rue De La Paix. Two hours, thirty minutes -MH_ **

****

What the fuck? 

 

He even texted as much but of course didn't receive a reply and then noticed something.

 

"Sally?"

 

"Yeah, boss?"

 

"This isn't the way to the Yard."

 

"Nope."

 

"Mind telling me where we're going then?"

 

"I do." Greg was a bit used to the cloak and dagger the Holmes brothers seemed to favour, but he wasn't amused this time. He hadn't time for all of it at the moment. There was nothing for it however but to sit back and let himself be driven to what he figured was the airport since it was obviously a Parisian address and there was no way he could get there on time unless he flew. Upon arrival(and confirmation of destination)he was silently handed one of those large golden brown envelopes containing a wad of euros, his passport(at which he shook his head, knowing perfectly well it had been in his desk at work in case he was suddenly conscripted to go to, say, Paris to help save the younger Holmes' arse. Again.), an open ended round-trip plane ticket to Paris, a sleek mobile phone complete with headphones and instructions on when, where, and how he was to use it.

 

There was also a little red Speedo which he hurriedly stuffed into his pocket as his face became a very similar shade. Again he asked himself the age old question: What the fuck?

 

He made it to the address with the extent of his recalled secondary school French and thirty minutes to spare, having no idea what to think as his mouth hung open. The five-storey building was, as most were in that city, chock full of character and history even though he was positive it was rather new. One entered the establishment through two sets of double doors, one glass and one carved wood, over which hung a great curved glass lip, and he was made to feel even less  adequate when he observed the plethora of beautiful people in beautiful clothes, not even one of them, including the liveried man now approaching him(probably about to throw him out for a homeless), looked anything close to a haggard old homicide detective inspector. He got his phone, badge, and passport out in order to be ready to not only try to convince the man he was supposed to be here but figure out  _why_.

 

" _Monsieur_  Lestrade," the man, not much older than a boy really, probably on his Summer job was in a crimson trimmed black uniform, the hotel sigil with his name displayed prominently on the left breast.

 

"Yes. Erm,  _oui_.  _Bonjour_. I'm-"

 

"We've been expecting you,  _Monsieur,_ " the man-boy called LaSalle said with a polite little smile and a heavy accent. "If you will please follow me." Greg nodded his acquiescence and was lead to the lifts, keeping his stance professional despite being unable to help the scenery, living and ornate who turned his head on the way. It was all marble floors and pillars and oddly comfortable looking decorative seating. Globes of light were at intervals that kept shadows at bay. Greg could practically smell the money as he Googled the place on the new phone. He'd turned it on as soon as he was able after the flight and was fully charged with a Parisian number to save his mobile plan the exorbitant fees that would accompany travel in a different country. He wished he hadn't. At about a thousand pounds per night, the Park Hyatt Paris-Vendome was tops in luxury accommodation. Sherlock never did anything half way, including need help.

 

The lift opened directly into a rather small foyer with only yet another set of heavy carved wood doors on the opposite end. As he wondered why his cop senses weren't tingling with the anticipation of danger despite the mystery of it all, LaSalle slid a card into and out of the lock expertly(Greg always had a time with those ridiculous things) and opened both doors at once in grand presentation. 

 

The dove gray carpets begged for bare feet. Everything in the spacious room that was flooded with the natural light wanted bare anything on it. He noticed even the leather was butter soft as he was given a short tour of the suite that included a baby grand piano, things that hung on the walls trimmed in dancing figures made of metal, and something that wasn't merely a bath. It was a Bathing  _Area,_  complete with slatted wooden screen walls and a massive slightly rectangular tub ringed with unlit candles that probably smelled of lavender, going by the residual odor of the room. The water closet alone, containing only the toilet, a bidet, and a third sink was the size of his flat's front room.

 

LaSalle handed him the room key, a folded note Greg was instructed on the front to read when alone, and retook his position by the entrance as Greg fished a few notes out of the envelope(way more than he would ever dare in real life but he was obviously here to maintain a facade of some sort)and pressed them into the boy's hand. With a  _Merci_  and a slight bow, he departed, leaving Greg in the room that, despite it's plushness, echoed with the loneliness he felt when he saw something Mycroft would enjoy but he couldn't really tell him because he was away on his own secret mission.

 

The knock at the doors snapped him back to reality as he stood in the middle of  the room, pondering.

 

He looked through the keyhole and for just a moment thought the small army dressed in white was there to take him to the looney bin. I mean, why would a man who came from beat cop stock suddenly jet off to a thousand pound a night luxury hotel in Paris, presumably to save a petulant genius man-child whose older brother was some sort of secret agent in disguise and oh yeah, shagging said older brother, unless he was insane? He cautiously called a lame greeting through the doors and was answered by the brunette woman who seemed to be the commander. Something about preparation. He made sure he was ready to defend himself if it was required and opened the door to five people and a plethora of equipment.

 

As he thought, the woman was directing the others in the cropped tones of someone used to being obeyed as she went through papers on the clipboard she was holding. And obey they did, a pair setting up what looked like a massage area in that massive bathroom and the other one going into the bedroom in which there was a separate dressing area and a huge four-posted bed roughly the size of his own bedroom at home. 

 

" _Monsieur_  you are to shower and put that on, if you please."

 

"Sorry, what?" He looked down on his person to where she was pointing. The bright red corner of the Speedo dangling out of the pocket in which he'd hurriedly stuffed it. Oh God was that out the whole time? According to her tiny amused smile, it was. He hid his flushed face by going to comply, unable to help throwing on one of the hotel's almost unreasonably fluffy dressing gowns self-consciously. These people weren't Mycroft, who looked at his aging, plumping body with something akin to awe and gratitude and... starvation. He then refused to think of Mycroft's lithe, paleness because there was too little between him and the world and the latter didn't need to see how those thoughts affected him so easily.

 

Remembering at the last minute the letter he was supposed to have read didn't help when he brought it into the water closet after a scan of the room for audio/visual recording devices. It had become almost second nature to him and he half-smiled at himself for it.

 

_My Dearest Gregory,_

_There is no need to throttle Detective Sergeant Donovan. She was sworn to secrecy though I'm sure she executed it in the most irritating fashion and I apologise. I know that you've been having a particularly rough time during this separation as have I. I know you don't much care for the "overpriced" lifestyle of upper-crust society, but please allow me to spoil you this once. There are several itineraries at your disposal and you may pick and choose any one at any time or none at all. Would that I was with you right now. I could use one of your patented neck massages. I swear to you, I've been to the greatest masseuses in the world and none of them even come close to what a simple touch from you can unravel within me; what a simple look does to my mind and body. These things, as well as your smile, are all I have to sustain me during our time apart. You told me once that you could refuse me nothing reasonable, so I ask that you accept this pampering. You and I both know that your work will still be there when you return._

 

                                                                                                               _Yours Always,_

_Mycroft_

He could hardly stand it, how lucky he was, how very much he was loved.

 

He couldn't get the military analogy out of his mind as he was manicured, pedicured, massaged, and a thousand other things almost all at once(though he drew a line at having his eyebrows plucked or hot anything other than water or oil near anything on his body) to the soundtrack of classic rock coming from his new phone, pressed into service as a music player in a speaker dock. A few of the "soldiers" broke rank with little nods in time with the beat and he bantered easily in broken English and French with a few of them on the merits of good music. He dabbled in it himself and would trade every single thing going on here for a hill in a field, Summer twilight, hand-rolled smokes(a few of which weren't tobacco), a fifth, his guitar and Mycroft laid out on a blanket next to him. 

 

Before Greg could get too into his longing, however, they were all finished and he was ushered into the dressing area where the finest cloth awaited him on several hangers. He'd never been able to figure out colours. He wasn't blind to them, just unrelentingly uncaring about the difference between Pearl, Eggshell, and Ivory. He only started trying when attempting to distinguish the different blues of Mycroft's eyes, the darks and lights of Mycroft's hair, what the exact tone of Mycroft's skin was(Alabaster sprayed with faint Copper freckles that tasted like all of his deepest sexual fantasies). Even with his newfound knowledge, however, black was still just.. black.

 

Until he put on these clothes. 

 

This black undulated. It was deep and full and whispered heated promises in the form of a subtle sheen that complimented the silver of his hair. It fit like a second skin, diminishing his expanding midsection and making his arse almost a nice as Mycroft's. He was almost surprised they didn't give him a haircut or a shave, but then he remembered how his Mycroft liked him a bit rugged. When he emerged, he was fussed over and complimented before one of the "soldiers" produced a professional grade camera. He was given a couple of whiskeys from a bottle that probably cost more than a week's pay before he was shot all around the rooms. They started on the bed because he'd decided that he didn't want to end there without Mycroft present. They ended at the piano, him posing comfortably but not quite relaxed enough to play anything. They left, taking their equipment with them and tidying everything until he just sat there on the bench, sipping expensive scotch and growing progressively more lonely.

 

Now that he was alone, he messed around, tickling the ivories softly, humming most of the words softly to himself in the quiet of the large empty room. He'd had them turn off the music when he got to the piano bit and now he didn't even have the small comfort of the melodies if he didn't produce them himself. He sighed and contemplated finding a cigarette, literally all dressed up with no place to go.

 

"Don't stop," came the voice that filled him with such complete happiness, he didn't even think it was possible. Even turning around and laying eyes on what he was sure was a spectre in a charcoal pin-stripe bespoke three-piece suit, because no matter how many times he saw him, there was no possible way anyone could look  _that_  good, so consistently, every. single. time. It was criminal and his day job didn't much cater to the criminal aspect.

 

"Myc?"

 

"Hello, Gregory." All at once he had to make sure he was real. He nearly knocked the bench over, standing and rushing across the room. He stopped a few inches away. He could smell Mycroft, a combination of expensive grooming products, expensive materials, power, and lust. Though his face was as uniform as usual, Mycroft's deep blue eyes glittered with mischief, but he let himself be grabbed, taken hard with bruising kisses. Greg could hardly hold back all his body wanted to do  _right fucking now_  as his heart just wanted to enjoy the sensation of Mycroft after three weeks of absence. "Please," Mycroft begged between the near-assault of kisses. Greg took his hand and tugged toward the bedroom but Mycroft stopped their trajectory. "The piano, Gregory. Please don't stop," he gasped in a way that made him both extremely difficult to refuse and extremely easy to do so in light of impending sexual congress. They had at least the weekend and, as Mycroft had wanted to indulge him, he wanted to do whatever he could to pamper his love.

 

Greg positioned Mycroft directly in front of him, using the anchoring grip he had on those narrow hips both Holmeses seemed to have, between his own body and the piano keys. Mycroft deserved a stellar seduction for all he'd done and Greg was determined to try his best to give it to him. Greg peppered the sweetest lips he'd ever tasted with kisses as he ran his hands up Mycroft's sides in order to stretch his arms out in a stabilizing position, palms down on top of the piano without mashing the keys with that marvelous backside. "Keep your hips here," Greg commanded, pulling at the aforementioned hips so that Mycroft's pelvis fit tightly against his. Their erections were raging and pulsing and he was pretty sure he was ruining his hundred pound underwear with his leaking need.

 

"Alright," Mycroft agreed, doing as he was told. It almost cost the man his seduction as a compliant Mycroft was one of Greg's biggest kinks. A man who held so much power and could control it with a flick of his wrist, willingly submitting was at times, just what the detective inspector needed at the end of a long day in which whether or not he was listened to seemed to be a choice for his subordinates.

 

Greg began his song, playing around his lover, arms tightly in position regardless of the fact that Mycroft only moved to grind against him or kiss his face, or suck his neck rendering some of Greg's song nearly unintelligible.

 

_Just stare into space_

_Picture my face in your hands_

_Live for each second without hesitation_

_And never forget I'm your man_

Mycroft was nearly moaning now and Greg could hardly catch his breath to continue. Especially when his straining member was freed and languidly stroked by expert hands. But a song Mycroft wanted, a song he would have.

 

_Wait on me boy_

_Cry in the night if it helps_

_But more than ever_

_I simply love you_

_more than I love_

_life itself_

Finally Mycroft broke, that turn of phrase tailored to him like one of his suits causing him to go into a near frenzy. Greg knew how he felt, unable to get close enough,  _feel_  enough.

 

"I knew you'd look beautiful in this suit," Mycroft panted between kisses and the undoing of way too many buttons, "but I underestimated the effect it would have on me." They were  _finally_  moving toward the bedroom and that massive thing that actually needed steps to mount. Greg was doubting they'd make it that far as Mycroft was going infuriatingly slowly, speeding up and abating when Greg was on the edge of just throwing him down wherever they happened to be. Mycroft knew him so well and, in this situation, it was freeing.

 

"I learned that song for if you had to be away even one more day," Greg confessed before sliding his tongue up that glorious expanse of neck that had finally been freed from the shirt-tie-waistcoat-jacket. "I was going to record it and send it to you." The most satisfying thing about marking Mycroft's skin, especially at that one spot just below his ear at his hairline, was the uncontrollable writhing. Every bit of him rubbing against every bit of Greg as he made those  _fucking sounds_  was almost more than poor Lestrade could bear. When they were finally( _fucking finally!_ )naked, Greg nearly had to completely get off the dais to which the bed was bolted in order to rein himself in.

 

There was a plug.

 

Mycroft had something pink and fleshy in him to keep him at the ready until...

 

Greg needed a moment, almost coming as he stood there and watched Mycroft retrieve lubrication  _as if he was still fully clothed and didn't have a plug in his arse!_

 

"You first," Mycroft said, his words made all the more filthy by the use of his British Government tone, a tone that politely demanded, promising a great reward for obedience and great punishment for the opposite. Greg was nearly climbing out of his skin, by the time Mycroft had got him on his back and open enough to receive him. Mycroft wasn't as thick but he was longer and slightly more curved, a perfect reflection of the man himself, because as lonely and doubtful as he could get sometimes, he never,  _ever_  felt unwanted when Mycroft was looking at him, no matter the capacity. Desire for him radiated from Mycroft's every pore regardless of if he had his full business costume on in a boardroom or a crime scene or was naked and gasping for it. Greg was actually known for his great restraint, one of the reasons Sally was questioning his behaviour earlier. But Mycroft,  _he_  was on a completely different level. Greg had seen him fall apart, was responsible for it a few times for good or ill,  but giving Greg what he needed instead of what he wanted was the greatest show of restraint of all time. It would have been so easy for them to just take from one another and be done with it until the next day, but Mycroft apparently had a plan. That plan apparently included reducing Greg to an overheated, whimpering puddle, begging for something,  _anything_.

 

There were few times Greg could orgasm when he was bottoming without his cock being touched. Usually it was rather small yet still satisfying, the result of experimentation. But the combination of time, distance, and Mycroft's expertly rolling hips snapping into him hard enough to punctuate his continuous groans along with that impossibly posh voice murmuring filth into his ear( _Right there?Is that where you need me?Is that spot right there going to make you come for me?Yes Gregory!Come for me, my love.Come fucking hard_ )as his prostate was stroked every. single. time. made the man nearly scream, his issue reaching as far up as his chin as Mycroft sat back a bit to watch with a cat-that-got-the-cream smile gracing his beloved features.  He pulled out almost immediately to begin cleaning Greg off with a wicked tongue in a manner that notably, kept Greg half hard still. Mycroft made sure to steer completely clear of penile contact whilst stroking and petting Greg with hands, mouth, and words. He reached for Mycroft's impossibly hard prick, the slender member nearly purple and leaking copiously, but his hands were moved away with not much effort as Mycroft continued to orally make love to him in every way possible.

 

"I've missed you so, Gregory. I love you. I love you dearly." Apparently, Greg had been holding up his side of the dialogue without knowing anything about what he was saying, words pushed out of him in grunts and moans and a refractory period he hadn't seen in himself since his young twenties. Because when Mycroft began begging for him, putting a show on of ever so slowly extracting the plug, then begging some more, it was all he could do not to go at him like a wild beast. More than he wanted his second orgasm in half as many hours, he needed Mycroft to feel every last point of contact, every last drop of heartfelt emotion the man evoked in him.

 

So he sunk into Mycroft as slowly as possible, extending his own groan of pleasure tenfold as he resisted with all his might Mycroft's urging legs wrapped around his waist as soon as he began. The weight of Mycroft's heels at the small of his back nearly turned him back to raging, but he resisted some more, as the result would be completely worth it.

 

Greg began long deep strokes in time with breathily singing the chorus of the song he'd begun earlier.

 

_And I guess that's why they call it the blues_

_Time on my hands could be time spent with you_

_Laughing like children_

_Living like lovers_

_Rolling like thunder_

_under the covers_

_And I guess that's why they call it the blues_

He latched onto Mycroft's special spot with his mouth and sped his undulations up, extracting from his love the sweetest shouts of orgasm he'd heard to date. And Mycroft was coming for at least thirty seconds as Greg chased his second one of the encounter with his man still trembling and whimpering beneath him. Even into their post-coital kisses they verbally reflected how they were everything to each other.

 

Also they were starving.

 

So, as Greg took rather wobbly steps into the bathroom in order to begin filling the tub, Mycroft took several deep breaths in order to compose himself long enough to order for them "Whatever looks good" over the phone in flawless French. He was warned against that by a Greg Lestrade's confession that he was too knackered to go again so he needed to quit that sexy foreign language talk for at least an hour or six to give him a chance to recover.

 

It took two.

 

After a decadent meal of the finest Paris had to offer the famished sexed-out couple in a jet stream bathtub, Mycroft took his dessert in the form of what he could Hoover out of Greg's cock as the water was just beginning to cool. They washed each other from head to toe before Mycroft attempted to let his man get all the way through the song this time. It didn't work out as, at about the halfway mark, he was once again thrusting into Greg, having bent him over the piano so that he was, for the fourth time, hard and leaking on the keys. He was sorry for housekeeping in between the mind-blowing sessions but as he was being fucked through the floor, or attempting to fuck Mycroft through the shower walls, or any number of other places they copulated all over the suite, he cared for nothing but what he could give and get. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties with the accommodations, mainly making it a LOT cheaper and making the bed situation cooler but, all in all, I think the space is awesome. Better be, for the cost.
> 
> Also the song Greg played was of course: I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues by Sir Elton John. I always took it as a song about a couple who had to part for a time and were sad about it so... it fit.


End file.
